iFML
by Charlie Merrit
Summary: Ain't nuthin' but a 'iOMG' thang: A companion piece from Sam's perspective inspired by 'iWTF', with apologies in advance to WhiteKnightro if it bites. If I owned 'iCarly,' I'd tell you, but I don't, so I won't.
1. Chapter 1

**iFML**

**1.**

You are Sam Puckett, the scourge of Ridgeway High, and you are getting bored.

Never one to leave such a thought unexpressed, you say so out loud in sing-song fashion as the boy standing in front of you goes through his strutting performance, rolling his sleeves, cricking his neck and flexing his shoulders in a laughably transparent attempt to psych you out. You've seen all this before. Freddie Benson, technical producer of _iCarly, Galaxy Wars_ enthusiast and nubbiest of all nubs, is about to take you on in an arm-wrestling match and as is typical of him, he is making preparations. He is all about the preparation. You are certain he's done research into form and technique, perhaps even studied footage of others, and in fact, you wouldn't put it past him to have read a book on arm-wrestling. He seems to take comfort in these routines; you think it makes him feel like he's doing something without actually having to make a decision.

Finally, he takes a seat across the table, clasps your smaller hand in his and stares into your eyes.

He's going to lose.

You know it, and what's more, he knows it. The arm-wrestling challenge is simply the latest round in what has become a war of pretense. He is many things, but these days, a weakling isn't one of them, and he has weight and upper body strength on his side. You know he could best you if he wanted to; maybe not every time, but some. Clearly, he thinks you haven't noticed that he's been throwing the fight, and you can't bring yourself to tell him how frustrated you are. After all these years, having taken every measure of him, does he think you can't tell when he's holding back on you? He's been strong enough to win for a while and these days, you find yourself willing him to for his own sake as much as yours. He has always favored the path of least resistance, and it makes you want to scream at him sometimes. When the object of his affections was in danger of moving to Yakima with her grandfather, he was pathetic, falling to his knees and begging him not to take her away. In moments like those, you were disgusted by him. Too often, he needed a shove into action; otherwise he'd wait forever for the world to come to him. You draw him out of his corner, make him come out fighting, and if you're honest, you've become addicted to these glimpses of the man he could be. He has no idea, but he's a different person when he's in battle with you, fierce and alive. You really _do_ like seeing him all feisty.

Carly Shay, your best friend and his aforementioned object, places her hand over yours, and it strikes you that this would make a perfect snapshot of your whole relationship, you and he pushing against each other in intimate conflict, but still hanging on to each other tightly while your mutual friend plays the referee. He would fake shock to learn you even had a thought that wasn't about food or violence. You would hit back by asking if he could tell what you were thinking now, then straight dead-arming him with a single punch. This was how the war went on.

"You ready?" Carly asks him.

"Ready."

His defiant smirk irritates and invites you equally, and you know he is deliberately trying your notoriously short temper. It was one of the unspoken secrets between you; he would warn you not to clobber him over the head again or lick his phone again and of course, you did it anyway because you both know perfectly well that he was daring you. He can deny it until the cows come home, but even as far back as the swing set incident, he was daring you. It's ironic that you've always been the engine of this war. If it were left up to him, you are certain the two of you would barely speak.

You notice the small bump on the inside of the top knuckle of his middle finger, a writer's callus, and his nails are slightly chipped; the show demands of him a surprising amount of manual work, maintaining the studio's lighting and sound rig and often building the props on his own, save the occasional helping hand from Spencer. His hand is warm and dry, the palm tightly wrapped around the ball of your thumb and his fingertips whitening against the back of your hand. It feels as though you could be lovers holding hands over a coffee table, the crowd watching in envy because he can't take his eyes off you.

Carly gives the word, and it's on. You think for a moment that perhaps this time, this time he will resist. Today is the day he will beat you. He's already shown signs of the man he is growing into. When you and Carly outvoted him and took on the good-looking yet comically stupid Cort for their useless intern, he retaliated by hiring a ringer, Ashley, to play pretty-dumb. He refused to back down, and wouldn't get rid of the 'feminidiot' until they ditched their 'himbecile.' You could have protested more firmly, to be sure, but for the most part, you remained quiet. You played at outrage right alongside Carly but inside, you were delighted; you were so proud of him for standing his ground.

But you already know how this will go down. He's convinced himself that it's the victory that makes you happy, not the battle, and he can't bring himself to take it away from you. Freddie never was vicious enough to draw blood, while you, on the other hand, don't quite know when to stop. You would casually gouge some thoughtless wound aimed to make him feel unloved and unlovable, watch his shoulders slump and his eyes go blank for maybe half a second before he put on his game face and grasped for a feeble comeback. It's at times like those that you hate this whole show, hate that squirming feeling in your stomach that comes when you cut into him carelessly deep.

You wonder briefly what would happen if you were to surrender. After all, you've had chances to end the war in the past. When he found out that Valerie, his first girlfriend (technically), had been using him, he came back to the studio trying to hide his first broken heart. You couldn't help but ache a little for him, and the hug you shared then was not given grudgingly.

Neither was the wedgie that followed. You have never done well with serious moments.

You could do it now, though. It would be simple just to let him pin your hand to the desk, to stop resisting him and let go. Maybe then you and he could just talk without playing games.

But you are Sam and Freddie, the barely-friends. You only speak to each other to trade insults, and you only touch each other in combat. Somewhere along the way, the war had become your one and only line of communication, and you think neither of you are quite ready to give it up. Although you would sooner die than admit it, you are quietly anxious that there might be nothing more. So you push down, bitterly force his arm back a little harder than you need to and let him lose.

3.2 seconds.

He whoops it up at his broken record for holding out against you, putting on a gun show and bumping Gibby with an exploding fist. You want to smile, knowing he's playing for laughs a little bit, but you're disappointed, so you keep the poker face you wear as old habit.

"Congratulations," you say, folding your arms and trying to sound indifferent, but you can still hear the keen edge of spite in your voice. You meant what you said; you are getting bored.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

You are Sam, co-host of _iCarly_ (woe betide anyone who calls you a 'sidekick'), and you are happy.

You're always happiest here amongst your friends, and it seems that even he notices. The webcast has become neutral ground for you both, the closest Sam and Freddie ever come to detente. You are in your element, doing something for which you seem to have a talent, and he is relaxed behind the camera where he's most comfortable. You aren't certain about the 'Old Spice' skit, finding it a bit derivative since the Internet is crawling with similar parodies, but you see it through and wrap up after a brief intro to the new kid.

"Good show, guys," he says. "I liked the little improv-y thing."

You often feel a private buzz of vindication when he laughs willingly at your jokes. In the past, you would've whaled on him just for suggesting you were anything less than hilarious, but you've come to count on his opinion when it comes to the show, good or bad. Carly is your best friend; she feels it's her role to appease you, downplay your faults and tell you how awesome you are as you do for her, but you know you can trust him to be straight with you. You're in such a good mood that you pay the new kid a compliment, but you should've known they wouldn't let that slide. Freddie folds his arms, following Carly's set-up with a standard line about her insults and beatings. He looks back at you quickly, obviously waiting for a blow to the head or soft areas, but you feel yourself wilt slightly. Gibby's fixation on Brad's tuna salad buys you a moment while you wonder briefly if your friends actually think you so vile that paying a simple compliment raises red flags. You come back to the conversation with a slight start when you see that he's leaving again.

This has been happening ever since they met Brad; now he has a tech-buddy to hang out with and do whatever dorky dorkiness it is that dorks do, he's been spending less time with the girls. Of course, you can't notice that so, stalling madly, you ask about 'the Project.' You can't help but feel a vague stab of resentment that he already told Carly some of the details but after all the times you've claimed to be aggressively bored by every other word out of his mouth, you know you can hardly blame him. This time, you fake an interest but you are barely listening when you take a deep breath and ask if you can assist. As you expected, you feel the eyes of both your friends. It's not unusual for you to horn in on people, but the sudden interest in his affairs is definitely out of the ordinary. He reaches out and squeezes your shoulder, probably feeling for the 'OFF' switch on the robot duplicate that has replaced his obnoxious barely-friend, and it's a different kind of contact than you're used to from him; although he plays it off as half a joke, it's both tentative and exploratory. You know you've tensed a little, but you can't help it. By now, you would've twisted his arm up his back and said something like 'Hands off the goods, Benson,' and he looks like he's braced for that. He seems even more startled by your lack of reaction and for a second, you have no idea what to do so you slip back into character.

"Can I help with the project or not?" you ask brusquely.

Confused he may be, but he says yes (with no complaint, you note), and you spend the evening scarfing down Brad's fudge, listening as they rattle on about facial mapping software and micro-expressions and pupil dilation and capillary blush responses. They even invite you to the movies with them, or rather, they mention the movies to you and you deliberately take it as an invitation. After an internal debate with your natural impatience, you dab on some perfume in the bathroom before you leave. You are aware of the risk of tipping your hand but you have your own project in mind tonight.

They waver over a special screening of the Very-Final-Honest-To-God-We-Mean-It-This-Time cut of '_Blade_ _Runner'_ (the dorks thought it would be fitting given their project was inspired by the machine in the movie), but finally settle on Brad's first suggestion, '_Galaxy_ _Wars: Remastered_.' Freddie doesn't exactly offer to buy your ticket, but pays for you anyway as a matter of course. You were supposed to hang out with Carly, but you text her on the way in then quickly shut off your phone; there will be questions, but they can wait. Sitting down next to him, you set the popcorn bucket between you as an excuse to sneak glances in the dark. By now, you know his face as well as your own; he has a nice face. You'd often thought of it as cute rather than handsome but it's somehow more pleasing these days, and you find it especially endearing tonight. He looks most like the boy he used to be when he watches movies.

On the way home, the small talk is mainly aimless chatter about '_Galaxy Wars_.' He seems surprised at your knowledge; you don't actually mind sci-fi all that much, but you use what you can to mess with him and in that sense, things are much the same. The back-and-forth is still there, but the sharpness is somehow absent. His skin is thicker these days, and you are silently relieved to find that you don't have to bite your tongue to have a conversation with him. He reaches across for another fistful of popcorn from the bucket you're still carrying and you slap his hand lightly, mostly for the sake of appearance. Lately, you find yourself putting your hands on him for the flimsiest of reasons; when he demonstrated Carly's new bed, you literally flung yourself on him, and during a conversation about Penny Tees, you even somehow contrived to spank the living daylights out of his _butt_, for crying out loud.

Brad says this has been fun, and as you turn to say goodnight, you catch a glimpse of Freddie's smile. It _is_ a smile, not that mouth-corner smirk he wears when he's trying to be a smartass, but an honest-to-God sweet and unguarded smile that shoots straight through you. He quickly lowers his eyes to the ground and as happens so often, you want so much to damn your stupid pride and tell him how exhausting it's gotten pretending to hate him. However, you're not alone and all the words that swell dangerously in your chest weigh heavy on the tip of your tongue. In the end, you settle for your usual non-specific nod, a sly exit line ('G'night, ladies,') and an over-the-shoulder thumb as you open your front door. You hear his laugh over the new kid's.

"Sweet dreams, Puckett."

You bounce upstairs, flop onto the bed in your usual pretzel fashion and, finally in the privacy of your own room, breathe a sigh; tonight had worked out. You think he was glad to have you along, which seemed like a good start. Strategy is not often your strong suit and you are far more comfortable winging it, but you had set out to prove to yourself and him things could be different, that Sam and Freddie could be different. The next step was the lock-in, which thrills as much as it troubles you; it was an excuse to spend the whole night with him, but it was a _whole_ night with him. As your eyelids begin to drag, it occurs to you again that it might be some twisted universal joke, the ultimate 'revenge of the nerd,' and you laugh softly. The nub was winning the war, and he didn't even know it.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

You are Sam Puckett, MoodFace Test Subject No.3 and right now, you are confused. For some bizarre reason that exists only within his nubbish brain, Benson has pulled a vanishing act right in the middle of his own precious project.

The evening had started out fine. Although Carly had asked briefly about your movie night, she was too distracted by her own project to give you the third degree and besides, you would be spending most of the night with the boys in the library when the lock-in started. Around ten o'clock, when Brad asked if he should set up to record the next test, Freddie suddenly slapped his forehead and cursed in Spanish (at least, it sounded like cursing). He'd forgotten to borrow the camera and hard drive they needed from the AV lab across the other side of school. He was so horribly embarrassed and apologetic that, to his utter surprise, you volunteered to go fetch them. He asked how you would get in; they were in the equipment locker and you don't have a key. You raised an eyebrow at him and then turned away quickly so that he couldn't see you smile when he told you to forget he asked.

You got back with the gear along with some guacamole and corn chips you swiped from the food cart for them and apparently, this was the last straw. You'd like to say you were startled when Freddie smacked the first chip from Brad's hand like a lit firecracker but you found yourself almost expecting it. Trying to cover the mildly stung tone in your voice, you asked why he did it, though you already knew from the way he was sniffing cautiously at the guac'; his Sammie-sense was tingling. He suspected shenanigans, guessing at a sleeper ploy, obscene face-graffiti and maybe a new profile picture on the _iCarly_ site (Franklin's warning over the PA couldn't have helped matters either). On his challenge, you tasted the dip for narcotics but if anything, he seemed even less satisfied than before, even downright disappointed. Forgetting himself for a second, he took your arm to pull you aside and you covered a small tug of delight at the firmness of his grasp; you _knew_ he could've taken you at arm-wrestling. He accused you bitterly of being '_nice_ and _helpful_ and _considerate'_ and demanded to know your game.

"No game," you replied sincerely. He gave you an evil-eyed look of disbelief, but you met his glare as coolly as possible while suggesting you both got on with the project. As you went back to work though, your heart sank a little. You've played too many games with his trust; you wonder briefly if he still has that bruise in the small of his back where you nailed him with an orange. You'd expected too much from one movie night, and even the smallest gesture will not yet pass unsuspected.

He asked you to sit and stare straight at the PearPad, and while he ran through all his beeps and clicks, you set your face and tried to keep your mind blank even though you were rattled. The nub was bound to notice your attitude adjustment sooner or later, but you had hoped it would be later. There was no way he'd let this drop. You'd have to explain yourself somehow. The problem would be getting the chance to speak to him, since the two of you are barely ever alone in the right moment. The last time was that damned fire escape where you and he shared not just the first (and perhaps only) serious conversation you've ever had, but your first kiss. The low lights, the soft music, the warm, clear night on the balcony high over the city streets; you had to admit that, as first kisses go, Momma could've done a lot worse. The memory stayed with you for a long time afterwards when, under the influence of a dentist's anesthetic, you spilled your guts to your best friend about it. Fortunately, there were distractions that prevented them asking why it was still on your mind that day, but while Freddie stood less than ten feet away staring at your face being mapped and digitized and discombobulated, you had that exposed feeling again. After the test was over, you were about to make an excuse along the lines of getting something to eat; you needed some breathing space.

"So what's her mood?" Brad asked.

This was where the confusion started. Freddie looked up from his PearBook with eyes big as headlights, said the results were 'inconclusive' then babbled some chizzy excuse and took off like a rabbit at a dog track.

That was twenty minutes ago. You went looking for him after ten. Neither he nor Carly were in her classroom although, courtesy of her sensory stimulus chamber, you were treated to the delightful image of Spencer hurling his spaghetti tacos up across one-way glass (you wondered briefly what had come over the normally sweet girl. Even _you_ couldn't imagine sealing your sister in an electro-shock-stink-capsule all night).

You decided to wait by Benson's locker which is where you are now, trying to figure out what to do next, although you are woefully short on ideas. Foresight has never really been your thing. Neither has hindsight, for that matter. Your knack is for freewheeling spontaneity, but it can do you no good in this mess. You haven't the slightest clue where or how to start, and it's not like you can just cross your fingers and start flapping your lips. Frustrated, you sink your teeth into a ham on ham on rye. You'd rather people believe you a glutton than a comfort eater, another of your secrets. Stress is one of the many things you handle by cramming your often treacherous mouth with food, like when Freddie got hit by the taco truck. You had gotten disapproving looks when you bought that stinking taco, but the only reason you ate it was to fill the sick, hollow place in your stomach left behind by those long seconds when you thought he might be gone. These are the kinds of things you want to be able to tell the boy; that actually you enjoy his company far more than you make believe, you like having him around, you miss him sometimes when he's not there.

Something always seems to get in the way.

You recall a game of Cupcake Slam when you were standing quietly next to each other in the Shay kitchen and dipping your chosen cupcakes into a pan of gooey frosting. There was no war to fight, no battles to be won. You were just Sam and Freddie, playing a silly game for fun instead of victory. You glanced over and saw him smiling, probably engrossed in calculating viscosity, density, stuff like that and the thought crossed your mind, clear as day; 'This is nice.' You could even have told him so if Carly hadn't come back downstairs.

The girl herself calls your name, breaking you out of your daydreams as she rushes over. You quickly stow that same disappointment at another lost chance to catch him alone. Grasping for something to say, Carly asks about the project, which you find curious since she must already have talked to Benson. She is smiling like she knows something but you are in no mood for riddles, so you play dumb, knowing her patience will wear thin quickly. Out of the clear blue sky, she suddenly accuses you of being in love with Brad and demands you admit it. You almost laugh out loud until you realize she is serious. The new kid? Sure, he's a nice enough guy and you'd step on your grandmother's neck for some of that fudge but you barely know him. Carly offers to explain how she came by such a ridiculous notion, but you are already getting a bad feeling.

"When Freddie tested his MoodFace app on you," the brunette coos in sly-cute fashion, "it said '_In_ _Loooove_.'"

For a brief moment, the world seems to stop spinning under your feet. That's why Freddie went to find Carly, why they both jumped to the most obvious conclusion. Of course it was Brad, had to be Brad, couldn't possibly be anyone but. You fumble for your composure and fall back on straight-up denial, but she won't take no for an answer so you keep up the bluff and bail with an excuse of going somewhere to eat in peace. It is a bravura performance on your part. Nobody watching could tell that your knees feel so weak you're surprised you can walk away.

Once up the stairs and around the corner, your back thuds against the wall and you gasp for breath at the knot of panic squeezing your chest. You are not ready for this. You thought that stupid MoodFace thing was a simple _'happy_/_sad'_ novelty app, and now it's left you feeling like you've been stripped naked. You've been holding onto this thing so tightly you haven't even dared say it to yourself yet, only to have it ripped away from you and flashed on a computer screen in big bold letters for all the world to see. For him to see.

'**IN ****LOVE**_**'**_

So here you are; alone, your secrets bared, stranded on school grounds with him until sunrise with no chance of escape. For the first time in a long time, you feel like crying at the unfairness of it all, and you do something you never thought you would do.

You throw away your sandwich.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

You are Samantha Puckett, best friend of Carly Shay and future owner of a false passport (you know a guy who knows a guy). Everyone in sight has the good sense to clear your path as you stomp through the halls, trying out new names in your head because you're going to have to go on the lam straight after you murder said best friend.

Not really, but you are as mad at Carly as you ever get. You'd locked yourself in the bathroom for ten minutes before you headed back to the library, sneaking through the small courtyard at the back to get a look in through the window and make sure the nub was still absent. You took to the PearBook, making fudgy small talk with Brad. The old skin was firmly back in place as you silently talked yourself down; you could pass this off. If it came to the worst, you'd tell them you were thinking about pizza toppings or something, they'd roll their eyes and it'd all be forgotten.

"Hey, everybody!"

You turned like everyone else and saw Benson at the door standing next to Carly, his look and voice abnormally bright. Of all the things you expected when you saw him again, some half-baked story about a two-headed frog wasn't one of them, but it soon became clear that he had been talked into one of Carly's schemes when he led the rest of the class out into the courtyard while she dimmed the lights to 'romance' and left you with Brad in cripplingly awkward silence.

Stupid horse documentary. The next time you saw Spencer, you were making him put a block on the Animal Channel. Carly is a child in many ways, a little impressionable and naive to the point of oblivious, although it doesn't stop her from interfering even where you wish she would leave well enough alone. You and Freddie had once sat duct-taped together (an incident which has since led to some confusing dreams) listening to her get all hysterical over your secret first kiss. Honestly, you were bitterly disappointed; you'd liked sharing just _one_ thing with him that wasn't about _her_. She coerced a promise of full disclosure from you both, but you had your fingers crossed and bit your tongue to keep from yelling that it was none of her damned business. It never used to be this complicated. Your loyalties were once clear and undivided, but lately there's a resentful part of you that comes out every time she rolls her eyes or shakes her head impatiently at Sam and Freddie, the riot-girl from the wrong side of the tracks and the little boy next door, as if you were the same kids you always were. As fiercely as you love your best friend, her condescension is starting to quietly chiz you off.

You get to Little Miss Matchmaker's classroom door (looks like Spencer threw up again) and draw a calming breath before you call her over. If it were anyone but Carly, they would already be flat on their back trying to decide which part of their face to clutch first. You tell her it's not right to ambush your friends, but she's not really listening, too excited at the thought of 'hooking you up.' You tell her you don't love Brad, which is easy enough. You tell her it's a stupid PearPad app, which it is. You're on a roll until Carly sticks a fork in the toaster.

"You've been acting different!"

For some reason, it lands like a blow and you can't hide it. You fire back a weak denial and hear him taunting in your head; '_That was pathetic. You're losing your touch, Puckett._' Carly protests that every time the boys do something together, you're not far behind and she's so close, so very close to the mark. She says she wants you to be happy and once more, your throat tightens with the need to tell someone; _he_ makes you happy.

Instead, you throw out some wisecrack about pie and she lets you leave without following.

When you get back, Brad and Freddie are nowhere to be seen and the suckers are filtering into the library, so you swipe someone's bottle and go outside to pace the moonlit courtyard like a caged tiger, knocking back ice-cold water like hard liquor. The good princess and her sidekicks, the loudmouth tomboy and the lovesick nub; in the beginning, these roles had bound you all together but lately, it's been more like they're holding you in place. You aren't like her, and truth be told you don't even want to be. That embarrassing episode when you tried to girl-ify yourself for the sake of Paul (or was it Pete? Could've been Pat, but whatever) had made it clear you'd have to forget the better part of yourself. All the same, you feel _something_ changing, something real and important, and not just in you.

Carly is the same, still the voice of reason, caution...restraint (sometimes, you think she sounds like a teacher), but she hasn't noticed that the nub is getting restless in their closed little world. Brad had shown him there are better friends, people who share his interests, don't take his affections for granted and don't leave him covered in bruises. You can feel him drifting away, and it bothers you more than you used to admit. Although you've never been one for hindsight, most of your memories involve Freddie in some way or another, and regardless of what you let him think, he's become special to you in ways you can't easily describe. 'Acting different' was all part of the plan, to let him know that you're as tired of this 'barely-friends' routine as he is, that you don't want to lose him, not really, that there might somehow be a slim chance that maybe on some level you could possibly be something like sort of...

...'**IN** **LOVE**.'

You slump down onto the steps, feeling raw and battered to the point of breaking. That's what the app had said, wasn't it? You felt that if nothing else, at least the war, the years of buttons pushed and lines crossed, had given the two of you your own peculiar rapport. In some ways, he knows you better even than Carly. How is it that a machine could read you and he can't?

The midnight hour is striking when the boy himself finds you, and you're not particularly surprised to see him. He leans against the library wall with his thumbs tucked in his pockets, a habit he has when he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He says he knows about the fight you had with Carly, but coming after you was his own idea. You know that, for some unfathomable reason, he cares about you. Not only did he give away a cruise to get rid of that Missy chick (hard to believe he still thinks you don't know; this is a school, not a monastery), but in all the screaming matches since, he's never mentioned it, never once thrown it in your face, though you almost wish he would. Things would be far simpler if you could just go back to hating his guts.

"But Carly's right," he adds.

For a few seconds, you groan your frustration into the night air and despise your best friend. You don't know whether to laugh or weep at the absurd situation you've made for yourself but as you sit in the dark on the steps of the gym and look at him standing a million miles away, it doesn't seem very funny. Repeating yourself for what feels like the thousandth time, you tell him you're not into the new kid. As usual, Freddie rolls his eyes and echoes Carly, pointing out that you've been finding excuses to spend time with him and Brad, and you want to scream at the bone-headed dolt. He doesn't even ask, doesn't even see what you feel is written all over you.

"And that means I'm in love with him?"

"Well, you _hate_ _me!_" he retorts sharply and with casual conviction, positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that you aren't hanging around for _his_ company. You consider all the wounds you left on him, all the ways you made him feel small, the hundred reasons you gave him to leave you out in the cold; he's always been the strong one. He took your best shot and here he is, still standing, while you've made yourself hollow and brittle as old porcelain.

"I've never said I hate you," you protest quietly, but even as the words are leaving your mouth, you hear how preposterous they sound. His voice cracks high as he contradicts you with all the times you've said exactly that, complete with documentary evidence, the 'I hate you' birthday card you gave him for a private joke. With a defeated sigh at his blindness, you gesture wearily at the door to demand he leaves, though it sounds more like a plea.

"Fine, I'll _leeeave,_" he complies mockingly.

"'Bye." You manage to make it sound caustic, but the realness of the word sticks in your still-aching throat.

"But before I go..." he persists.

In your frazzled state, irritation takes over. You surge to your feet and pull up close, trying to bull him into going away with a 'double fist face dance' (the threat is a little clumsy; you're off your game tonight), but to your surprise, the nub doesn't even flinch. In fact, he squares up in front of you and plants his feet, determined to be heard. As he recites the speech he undoubtedly rehearsed, his gorgeous brown eyes soften, his tone warm and sincere in a way you've never heard and you find you can't take your own eyes off him; he's here for your sake, not hers. You see the boy next door who's lost none of his sweetness in spite of everything you've done, the man he's becoming who was brave and wonderful enough to fight for his friends even against themselves. The girl you are might've beaten him up by reflex, but if the woman you are becoming hasn't already fallen, she is now totally lost.

"...but you never know what might happen if you don't..."

You will never hear the end of that sentence as you hold him fast and stop his mouth with yours. For the second time that night, the world stands still as you close your eyes and surrender. He usually smells of soap and fresh laundry but now there's cologne in the mix, and the faint scratch of his cheek on yours reminds you of the distance between that first kiss and this one. Benson is a startled mannequin under your touch, arms stiffly spread, and your grip on his unexpectedly broad shoulders tightens as you struggle not to run your hands up his neck, over his face, through his hair, to feel him all around you the way you crave him. You're burning your own heart out but you don't stop, don't even care. If this is your only chance to be this close, then wild horses couldn't drag you away from this one excruciating, ecstatic confession.

11 seconds. You broke your record.

As you take your hands (and lips) off him, the consequence of what you've just done sweeps over you like a freezing draft. In your young life, you've never experienced anything like this, rage and fear and doubt and hope and want and need all at once. His muscles unclench themselves, and as he blinks dumbly at you, his expression pinballs between wide-eyed shock, stammering bewilderment and out-and-out gaping. It's like the human equivalent of the 'Blue Screen of Death,' and you imagine the crashed software in his head trying to reboot and rewrite his memories in light of the blank you just filled in; you've been hanging out with nerds too much.

"Sorry," you mutter lamely in the silence. It's the best you can do right now.

"S' cool," he shrugs back in similar fashion; once again, you can't say you blame him.

You are Sam Puckett, and it looks a lot like you're in love with Freddie Benson.

Ain't hindsight a bitch?


	5. Chapter 5

**Epilogue: iLost my F'in Mind.**

**1.**

You are Puckett, Samantha (Miss), one of the most recent patients of the Troubled Waters Psychiatric Institution. Most people would've said that it was about time you ended up in the wacky shack but they would've expected you to be dragged in kicking and screaming (or restrained and sedated), not rockin' up to the counter and checking yourself in. After convincing the staff you wouldn't find ways to harm yourself or others with sharpened paintbrushes, they allowed you some art supplies. The orderly originally suggested finger-painting, and in a typical fit of Puckett sarcasm, you took him at his word, making a literal painting of a finger (although your first attempt depicted a different finger pointing in, to say the least, an indelicate gesture, which was frowned upon). You always liked to doodle when you were bored, but it was usually on people. Still, you have nothing else to do and the days drag by in the absence of a working TV. Besides, art seem to have a relaxing effect on you, which is why you're surprisingly placid when Carly enters your room.

As if it weren't already obvious, she demands to know why you checked yourself into a mental hospital. For a brief second, you think maybe he hasn't told her, but your calm does not last long. Not only does Carly know, she says it out loud like it wasn't the most horrifying thing ever; you kissed Freddie. Like a child, you refuse to hear it, covering your ears, la-la-lahing, stuffing your head under a pillow. You're even embarrassing yourself, and she, always one to follow your lead, reacts in kind.

"Sam loves Freddie! Sam loves Freddie!"

The same freezing nausea you felt three days ago when your deepest and most shameful secret was revealed sweeps over you now. Yes, it's been a three-day hangover since 'the incident.' You'd pushed it all to the very edge of your mind, tried not to remember what you felt when you kissed him, what you saw in his face before you ran. Now here she was, your best friend, waltzing around a mental patient's room and shouting it at the top of her lungs. Maybe _she's_ lost her mind.

You chase her down, pinning her arms from behind and clamping a hand over her mouth, but someone is drawn by the noise. Even before the door opens, you know it's him. Of course it is; wherever Cinderella goes, Buttons follows. In the split second before Freddie's brown eyes lock onto yours in recognition, three letters flare in your mind's eye, illuminated like a lightning strike.

'F...M...L.'

Panic makes you irrational and you yell at him to get out, backing away and using your best friend's body for a human shield as if he had a pistol pointed at you. Carly tries to force you to let go by kitten-licking your palm but she should really know you better. You haven't washed your hands since yesterday when you were in the yard; you'd scrounged some peanuts which inspired you to make mud peanut butter cups which in turn made you crave more peanuts (has it been mentioned that the TV doesn't work?). Freddie grabs your arms and separates the two of you. It isn't force that makes you let go, you just can't have his hands on you. Before she leaves the room to scrub the muddy peanuts off her tongue, Carly puts on her insufferable teacher mode and demands that you talk it out. Talk is her answer to everything. If she met Cain and Abel, she'd take them to Gallini's and try to make them talk it out over pie and coffee. All of a sudden, you're hungry again.

It starts, as always, with the back-and-forth and flailing of arms. You ask why he came here and he turns the question back around on you, you tell him you hate him and he asks why you kissed him, you tell him you like him,... and he frowns at you like you just told him you're Martha Washington (there are a few around here).

"So...you hate me..._and_...you like me," Freddie muses, as if he's trying to make sure he has the words in the right order. He doesn't get it either, which comes as no shock. You're making this up as you go along. You're so relieved when the orderly interrupts with hot quesadillas that you literally grab at the dish, slam the door in the man's face and make like you're ravenous. In fact, your stomach is twisted in a fierce knot and you can barely even swallow, but you need some distraction from the boy in front of you and you hope he doesn't notice the quick, small bites. He uses the same understanding tone he used on that night and you talk just to shut him up; the truth is that you don't _want_ to see him. You've spent the past three days in hiding, putting off this conversation, stalling the moment where he breaks you inside and you have to pretend like it ain't no thang. Quesadillas have suddenly become the most fascinating food in the world; you stare down at the dish in your lap as the boy moves closer. When he persists in talking about the kiss, you fire him a warning look and he backs away with his hands up in appeasement.

"Don't kill me," he pleads warily. He still doesn't understand; _he's_ the dangerous one. When he's near you, it feels like everything is close to the surface, straining at the leash and so you bite your tongue, speak in watered down terms of 'like.' He lays a hand on your shoulder, missing the fact that instead of bending his fingers back all you can do is bark at him to get off.

"I'm tellin' you,..." he says gently. "You're not any more mentally unstable than you have been your whole life."

It's subtle, but you recognize the sly wisecrack for what it is; an invitation to the status quo. He's giving you an out. The thought strikes you that over the years, he seems to have developed a knack for handling you. You recall once how he got you to read '_The Penny Treasure_' from cover to cover by making a bet out of it. Naturally, he lost and took a hosepipe down the pants but after you handed in your book report, you couldn't escape the vague feeling that he'd purposely duped you into doing homework. At the time, you were ready to tear his head from his shoulders, but you couldn't prove anything and Hell would freeze over before you flat-out confronted him. That was the first time that he got you and the thought he might know you that well used to be unsettling. At the moment, however, you're mostly grateful. Even if Carly might try to force you into a conversation you're not ready to have, Freddie knows you better.

"You really mean that?" you ask, sounding more vulnerable than you expected.

He nods and all the tension in you seems to unravel in one sigh. Now you want to get out of this place. You stand up to leave, reach for your bag and tip the quesadillas into it. Freddie watches from the door like he expected it, and as you pass, he mutters "Sure." But hey, you're going to need snacks; something tells you it's going to be a long drive home.


	6. Chapter 6

**2.**

You are Sam Puckett, and not for the first time in your life, you are surrounded by lunatics, not the least of whom seem to be your friends. Spencer, Carly and Freddie have just tried to break you out of the nut-hatch in time for the next webcast and as usual, they came up with the most ridiculous straight-out-of-a-sitcom plot ever devised. You should've known it wasn't going to work as soon as you laid eyes on him; how it occurred to them that Spencer Shay wearing a blonde fright wig, skinny jeans and a bolero jacket could pass for Pam Puckett, you will never know. They could at least have gotten a _real_ chick. Didn't Spencer have a sewing circle or some fruity chiz? Hell, if they could talk her into it, even Mrs Benson could've passed (although she might've ended up getting _herself_ committed). In fairness, his impression was eerily close and the nurse seemed to either be too stupid, blind or polite to point out that 'Spam' was one ugly mother. You might've gotten away with it if you'd all moved quickly enough and avoided security, but you found yourself unsurprised when Spencer was recognized by one of the patients. Something always goes wrong.

Not for the first time, Freddie stepped in to provide the voice of sanity, making the classic 'let's do the show right here, gang' suggestion. When he brought in his equipment from the car, it was obvious that he'd seen this coming. You see Spencer sitting to the side, shifting his boobs in an attempt to get comfortable, and you realize that since the show started, this weirdness has become such a part of all your lives as to be virtually taken for granted. Freddie seems to have learned to cope with these routine disasters in his own methodical way.

Naturally, you've had no chance for rehearsal, so you and Carly do a brief runthrough of a show patched together from a few stand-bys and a leftover 'Challenge Gibby'; it looks like you're winging it again (an idea which hadn't worked too spectacularly the last time, you reflect bitterly). From the corner of your eye, you watch Freddie hook up the rec' room TV with a monitor feed for the webchat. He works silently, but you know that nubbish brain of his is spinning fast enough to make sparks fly out of his ears. He's difficult for you to get a handle on at the best of times, doubly so when he starts thinking. Earlier in the day, you'd made a tacit agreement never to discuss the 'incident' but you can tell he's practically chewing his tongue off; he wants to say something. If he really wanted to talk, he could ask you to help him set up. You've done it before (Carly made you, but that was beside the point), and it would be good cover for a private conversation.

No.

As he glances across, you flick your eyes back down to your crib cards. Before the lock-in, you could kid yourself in idle moments with 'maybes' and 'one day's, but those daydreams are all over. For all your bravery, you're a coward in all the ways he's not and that's how you knew as soon as you kissed him; if he wanted to, he'd have come after you first. He's probably racking his brains right now for a way to let you down gently so you don't beat him to death with a broken pool cue and stash his corpse in a ditch. And why wouldn't he?

What do _you_ have to offer?

You remember the first time that question occurred to you. After the Girl's Choice Dance, you saw him at the Groovy Smoothie slow-dancing with Carly (something which, incidentally, Little Miss 'Friends Don't Keep Secrets' hasn't told you about yet) and for the first time ever in their company, you felt like an intruder, watching lovers from the other side of cold glass. You didn't for one moment believe they would end up together, but still it was the shape of things to come. He's Freddie Benson, smart, sweet and handsome (yes, alright, _handsome!_), and when he leaves Seattle, which he certainly will, he'll find a smart, sweet, beautiful girl like Carly who would jump at the chance to love him and be loved by him. Someday, years from now, you might see him on the street, he'd take a moment to grasp through his memory for your face, give a smile, maybe even a hug and a little small talk with an old barely-friend then move on without a backward glance.

He'll _never_ come after you.

Freddie starts counting as you take up your position next to Carly, channelling your wired-tight anxiety into slapping a broad smile on your face and preparing to rack your voice up to 'showtime' pitch. If you have no other talent, at least you can fake jolly with the best of 'em.

"And five...four...three...two..."

"ONE!" Your smile broadens fractionally at the exasperated grimace on his face as the patients chime in, the same one he once gave their pet moron, Cort; he hates when people finish the countdown. After a brief intro and a weird scene-crash from Caleb, you launch into the first bit, Gibby attempting to identify sushi with his butt.

"Uhm, actually," Carly interjects, "we're gonna do somethin' else first."

Three days ago, in the moment Carly revealed the MoodFace reading, you'd felt a horrible sense of foreboding. That same feeling creeps over you now as your best friend steamrollers the nub's objections, fires up a webchat and asks the audience if you are actually insane for liking Freddie. Your head is filled with disturbing visions of setting her hair on fire and pushing her down the stairs, so infuriating is she. Carly may be the only person you have patience for, but she has no idea how close she sometimes comes to a vicious pummelling.

The first chick is sickeningly cute and of course, she's all in favor of Sam and Freddie. They all think they know how this will end, like you live in some chizzy romantic comedy where the tomboy and the nerd suddenly realize they were meant for each other.

"OK, so to clarify," Carly continued, "you don't think Sam's insane for liking Freddie."

"No way. Freddie's hot."

"Yeeeah, let's not get carried away."

For a bizarre and topsy-turvy moment, your desire to smack the spit out of Carly Shay utterly betrays your feelings. You last felt like this when he wanted to beat on Carly's cheating ex-boyfriend. It could've been the making of him, his first real fight. You were even going to offer him the butter-sock, but Carly, in what seemed to you either a misdirected shot of bitterness or a misguided attempt to protect him, said he was a nerd who'd get himself pounded. You watched him crumble like a damp sandcastle, knowing in all these years you'd never wounded him like that. She can be impressionable and you're embarrassed to admit that she's often followed your lead when it comes to Freddie, but the difference is he expects that kind of comment from you and is well-defended as a result. Carly doesn't seem to understand that when she fires, it passes straight through his shields and lands a direct hit (still hangin' out with nerds too much). This time, however, he seems only mildly annoyed; it's a slightly depressing thought that he's gotten used to regular doormatting at the hands of the girls who are supposed to be his best friends.

The second chat was even worse, some basement-dwelling loser who only had enough coherent thought to scream 'SEDDIE' at the top of his lungs. The air seems to thicken around you and it feels vaguely like drowning. As hard as you kick and scream and struggle, you just make yourself more and more exhausted. You move away from them to create some breathing space, but only succeed in making yourself the center of attention. This has to stop.

"OK, look, I don't care how many iCarly fans say I'm not insane for liking Freddie," you begin, the bold front close to breaking point. "I know that..."

Out of nowhere, Freddie interrupts, insisting that they take one more chat. You wonder what the hell he's doing as he keys his own PearPad cam up on the monitor and begins to address the watching audience. He starts easy, recalling the 'story so far' of everyone's opinion being polled on the insanity of 'Seddie.'

Then he drops the bomb. "...but nobody asked me how _I_ feel."

Carly throws you a look, and you can see mild worry flashing in her eyes; _now_ she's getting it. Of course she didn't see this coming, oh no. It was a sign of how far she took Freddie for granted that she just assumed he'd fall head over heels in love with her best friend and they'd get married and live happily ever after in a castle made of clouds filled with pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows. You, however, are fully aware of what has become the wretched truth. In spite of your own cruelty, though, you didn't expect this from him. Never him.

"We talked about it," you say cautiously.

"No, _you_ talked," he countered with a smirk, and for once you hate that smirk. "You told me how _you_ feel while you ate a quesadilla."

Not your fault they make great quesadillas; at least the catering staff will appreciate the compliment.

"Anyway, yeah, it's important how Sam feels," he continues, "but how I feel is important too."

Here it comes; the moment you've been dreading ever since you fell for him. You _cannot_ believe you've allowed yourself to be cornered like this _again_. Your temper flares not with fury or violence but as you knew it would, with fraught weariness; you've never felt so alone in your life.

"OK, Benson, we get it!" you snap, unable to keep the hysteria from your voice. "You wanna humiliate me on the Web in front of millions of people? Go ahead and just do it!...'

And you keep ranting because honestly, if you stop, you're going to cry.

Time seems to warp and stretch as he puts down his PearPad, moving towards you with the same purpose and determination he had that night in the courtyard. It's a very weird 'Schrodinger's Cat' moment; the outcome seems inevitable, but you can't quite wrap your head around what's happening. What he's about to do seems too ludicrous, too unlikely, too melodramatic, but you can't help the small thrill of 'maybe' that crosses your rapidly scattering mind as he closes the distance. He seems taller than you remember.

As much as you hate those sappy, girly clichés that Carly goes for, you can't stop your heart from leaping in your chest as Freddie Benson's lips crash softly into yours. This kiss is different from the courtyard one, less fire and sparks, more smoke and steam; a kiss sweet and giving, not bartered or stolen, but shared. Automatically, your fingers find their way back to his arms, and you are shivering, actually _shivering_ at his hands on your waist, holding you like something precious. The boy you love is kissing you and you are lost all over again.

An odd sound like rushing surf snaps you out of your daze, and as you look around at the applauding patients and staff, you realize you're still in the asylum, still in Freddie's arms. As he stares into your eyes with some unreadable expression, you feel you should've seen it coming; he was always a sucker for the grand gestures. But then as it turns out, so are you.

"You mean that?" you ask, and although you're trying to sound casual, you're convinced he can hear the rising note of hopefulness in your voice.

He nods and mutters an affirmative. "So, I guess we're _both_ insane," he smirks again, and all of a sudden you know, you just _know_ that no matter what happens this boy can always be trusted with your heart.

"So now what?" you ask as the show wraps around you both, genuinely lost in uncharted territory. He shrugs, clearly as clueless as you are. Freddie Benson, the man with the plan, is unprepared and he's okay with it, which you find oddly comforting.

You are Sam Puckett, and you've lost your mind. And it's not as bad as you thought it would be.


End file.
